


A Past Life

by TeaGirrl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaGirrl/pseuds/TeaGirrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin promises Arthur he will wait for him in the midst of the final battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Past Life

**Author's Note:**

> Short "drabble" based on the gif set by lilybells on Tumblr.   
> http://lilybells.tumblr.com/post/36859676058/please-click-to-watch-final-part-part-4-is

“Arthur!”

Merlin charges forward, trying to catch the crumbling body of his master, his king. Arthur clutches his stomach as he sinks to his knees; his eyes glazing over as Mordred watches the King of Camelot fall before him, his royal blood coating the blade of his sword.

Mordred smiles triumphantly as Merlin sinks down next to Arthur. He clutches his shoulders, trying desperately to keep him upright.

But Arthur wants nothing more than to lie down, and ends up lying in a crumpled heap on the blood-coated ground.

Merlin feels his mouth twist into a snarl, and he raises his hand, palm out, instinctively, even before the ancient words have formed in his mind. He whispers words of destruction and suffering and desperation, directing all his anger at the killer bearing the crest of Camelot.

Mordred is knocked off his feet and sent flying towards a heap of dead, red-clad knights. He lands with a loud thump, and Merlin can hear the gasp escape his lips as he gets the wind knocked out of him. Even though he doesn’t get up, Merlin continues chanting, sending wave upon wave of misery crashing down on Mordred’s body. Merlin barely hears how loud and hoarse his voice is, how he rasps out the powerful words, how he is drawing blood from Mordred’s still body; how he is killing him.

He doesn’t stop until he is standing directly above Modred. His pale body is covered with cuts created by magic; cuts that don’t congeal; cuts that don’t stop bleeding until there is no more blood left to shed.

Merlin knows he is dead. He’d felt his dying breath, and he’d heard the unspoken words upon Mordred’s tongue in the back of his mind, as Mordred’s soul had left their world. _Long live the King of Camelot._

This doesn’t stop him from reaching for a sword strapped to one of the lifeless knights by Mordred’s body and holding it above his head, both hands on the hilt, his vision blurred by tears of anger. He plunges the sword into Mordred’s chest, eliminating any chance of a recovery, destroying any last trace of life and magic within him.

Merlin lets out a shaky breath as he staggers away from Mordred’s body, suddenly desperate to get away. But he can’t leave this place. Not alone.

He turns to Arthur, who is stirring ever so slightly, trying to get up. He’s always trying to get up, trying to carry on. He rushes to his side and pulls Arthur towards him, cradling him in his lap.

“Arthur,” he calls, his words strangled by the panic blooming in his stomach.

Arthur doesn’t answer. He merely opens his eyes ever so slightly. It seems like it’s requiring all of his strength just to _look_ at Merlin.

“Arthur, please,” he rasps out. He is choking on the sobs that are spilling from his lips. “ _Please_ stay with me.” He clutches Arthur tighter, his bloody fingers digging into Arthur’s chainmail. He knows he’ll never let go until Arthur stands up and turns his back on this battlefield with Merlin by his side.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes, his brows furrowing, his eyes searching for Merlin’s familiar face. Merlin cups Arthur’s face gently, helping him find his servant in the midst of the approaching darkness at the edges of his vision.

The magic surging through Merlin’s veins - the magic that ended a life just a few moments ago - flares to life at the feel of Arthur’s skin beneath Merlin’s fingertips. The breeze seems to whisper words of love, life and comfort in Merlin’s ear, and he finds himself repeating them quietly, his hand pressed against Arthur’s wound. His fingers are soon coated with his King’s precious liquid-life.

“Please,” he whispers, begging himself and whatever Gods are listening to spare the life of the only person he holds dear.

_Please…_

But no matter how firmly he presses, or how accurately he recites what his magic tells him to say, Arthur is still pale and dying. Merlin can feel his eyes glow gold as he forces whatever traces of miracles he has within him into Arthur’s body. His skin burns from the effort, but Arthur is still struggling to breathe.

“Why?” Merlin snarls, his eyes constantly flickering from blue to gold. “Why isn’t it _working_?” He continues to pour every last drop of magic – the magic that clings to the very fibres of his soul – into Arthur. It drains him and he feels faint. But he knows he has to stay strong, for Arthur.

“Merlin.”

He stops at the sound of Arthur’s voice, hoping that he has somehow managed to heal him; that he managed to protect him from Death himself. But Arthur is still pale and dying.

Arthur lays his hand over the hand Merlin is pressing against his wound.

“It’s too late,” he says.

Merlin tries to blink away his tears, but they end up creating hot trails down his cheeks, landing on Arthur’s armour. He just shakes his head, unwilling to admit defeat. This cannot be the end. They were meant to stay together forever. And if not, then Merlin was meant to die at his side. _Arthur_ was meant to survive. He’d promised.

Arthur looks up at him, and from the way his eyes are sparkling, alive with life and awareness, Merlin can almost trick himself into believing he is not dying. But it is Arthur’s tears that are making his eyes sparkle, and Merlin can feel pieces of his heart withering and dying in his chest. Arthur hardly ever cried.

“I have to go now, Merlin,” he whispers, lacing their fingers together.

“No.” Merlin just shakes his head. “No, you dollophead!”

Merlin quickly wipes away Arthur’s tears with a brush of his thumb, and then lays his hand over Arthur’s wound once more.

“I can fix-“

“Merlin.”

“I will fix-“

“ _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin’s breath hitches in his throat, and he doesn’t have time to silence the sob that penetrates the small space between them. He rests his forehead against Arthur’s; his tears coating Arthur’s skin, their breaths mingling, their hearts stuttering.

“You can’t just leave me like this, you clotpole!”

A small, sad smile spreads across Arthur’s face. He reaches down to grasp Merlin’s hand. “Don’t be such a baby, Merlin,” he says affectionately as he draws Merlin’s hand to his lips, placing a tender, heart-breaking kiss to Merlin’s knuckles, underlining the finality of it all.

Arthur is going to die.

Arthur is going to die and there is nothing Merlin can do about it.

There are still things unsaid between them. There are still places they have to explore together, adventures to be had. Arthur can’t leave him now, not when he needs him the most. Not when he can’t bring himself to say goodbye.

Merlin wants to tell him how much he loves him, how he would happily give his life to undo this calamity. How Arthur is, and always will be, his one and only.

But the words are smothered and swallowed by the sobs Merlin is trying desperately to control, so he simply says, “You prat…”

But somehow Arthur understands and he smiles. Then his smile fades and his expression grows serious, as if he’s just remembered something important.

“Wait for me, Merlin,” he pleads. Merlin can tell he’s using what little strength he has left to say these words.

“Wait for me. I promise I will find you.”

Merlin quickly wipes away the tears that are now flowing freely down his cheeks. “I will, Arthur. For as long as it takes, I will wait.”

A slight tension in Arthur’s jaw disappears at Merlin’s reassurance. It’s as if he now knows he can leave with no regrets.

And it is at this moment the Gods decide that Arthur should draw his final breath. Merlin feels him go limp in his arms, hears his heart stutter and finally stop, its last beat ringing in Merlin’s ears. His magic even allows him to see a flickering sphere of light leave Arthur’s body and caress Merlin’s face, before rising up into the sky above them and disappearing from sight. 

Merlin watches helplessly as his King dies in his arms, and his whole body shakes as he is swallowed by ruthless sorrow. He draws shallow breaths, trying to calm the unstable magic within him that is bursting at the seams. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears makes it hard for him to hear the raw sound of betrayal and misery that bursts from his lips, in a shout that shakes him to the core. It is a roar that would have summoned dragons from the dead. It is a roar that makes even the Gods take pity.

 

* * *

 

The two young men make their way through the sea of people that is the city of London. The hustle and bustle of hectic city life surrounds them as they make their way towards each other, oblivious that their paths will cross - not for the first time and surely not the last - in a few short moments.

The blonde businessman squints to read his emails on his Blackberry, sipping his coffee as he strides purposefully towards his office, mingling with the crowded street, like a salmon joining his companions as they swim upstream.

The dark haired man is dressed in a warm jumper and scarf, a bag slung over his shoulder, a cup of warm, soothing Mocha in hand. He frowns at his watch and curses under his breath, worried he’ll be late for his lecture.

His eyes are still watching the seconds tick by, and he gasps as he runs into a wall of muscle clad in an expensive suit. The lid of the Mocha he is holding flies off at the impact, its contents staining the suit of the man he has collided with. His mouth falls open in embarrassment and panic, and he is met by fiery blue eyes as he looks up.

“Oh my God, I am _so_ sorry!” the dark haired man exclaims, his hands hovering over the ruined, chocolate smelling fabric, unsure if he should try to clean up his mess.

The blonde man frowns as he surveys the damage and glares at the dark haired man, his eyebrows furrowed, his arms gesturing to his suit.

“You idiot!”

The dark haired man looks at his shoes, blushing as he gets told off by a total stranger in public.

“Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?!”

The dark haired man feels a twinge of annoyance soften his humble embarrassment. He’d apologized. There was no reason to yell at him.

“I said I was sorry, you…” he mumbles, searching for the right word that embodied this arrogant dollophead of a man.

The blonde raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the dark haired man’s retort, annoyance still plainly written across his face. The dark haired man stops looking at his shoes and stares fiercely at the blonde, his jaw set, refusing to cower before this insolent…

“Prat!”

 But instead of becoming insulted, or taking part in the exchange of unflattering names, the blonde’s expression softens, and a flicker of recognition appears in his eyes. His frown disappears and suddenly he takes on a look of astonishment and realization.

And a vision slowly appears in the dark haired man’s mind, a vision of the blonde in chainmail, a sword in hand and a crown on his head. Memories of his smile, his tears, his touch and their adventures seem like dreams from another life.

The blonde can’t help but expect that the man’s eyes will flash gold at any moment; that something magical will happen.

The city sounds around them seem to whisper in their ears, urging them to recall words they cannot remember they have exchanged, urging them to find each other once more.

_I will wait for you._

“Do I know you?” the dark haired man asks, his eyes narrowing as he tries to place the blonde man’s familiar face.

The blonde steps closer, their chests now only inches apart, his stained suit completely forgotten. He gingerly reaches out to push a chunk of dark hair that has fallen into the man’s eyes away from his face. Another spark of recognition flares amidst the blue of his irises.

“Merlin?” the blonde practically whispers, his voice catching ever so slightly.

The dark haired man’s eyes widen as a name rolls off his tongue before he’s had a chance to think. The name just comes naturally, and he feels like he’s spoken it countless times before.

“Arthur.”

Memories come crashing down on both of them at the sound of their names from the each other’s lips. Memories of campfires, feasts, taverns, magic, battles and victories. Memories of camaraderie. Memories of their past life together.

“Merlin!” the blonde exclaims before pulling the dark haired man into a fierce, bone-crushing hug.

Merlin buries his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck, tears pooling in his eyes at the memory of Arthur’s death, and how empty and pointless his life had been after Arthur had been put to rest.

Arthur lets out a relieved laugh, which turns into joyous sobs as he cradles the nape of Merlin’s neck with one hand. Merlin can feel Arthur’s body shake. He just holds him closer – his one and only King.

“You waited for me,” Arthur rejoices, his words muffled against Merlin’s neck.

 “I made you a promise, remember?” Merlin reminds him softly.

 

 

 


End file.
